White Rose
by thecrazyfanficcer
Summary: [ONESHOT] Just a short little letter Vicky writes about the dead Lucien, aka Luciano Crinamorte, sometime after City of Flowers.


Lucien…

I can still remember that horrible day, one year ago, when you "died." David and I were so deeply saddened at the loss of our only son. He thought you were gone, snatched away from me by that dark messenger we know as death. But I knew better; thanks to the man who appeared at the funeral that dreary afternoon, I knew you were alive.

David scoffed him, claiming him to be a rambling nutter, but I clung onto his comforting words and truly believed that, somewhere out there, you were alive and well. It was a lifesaving thought in this world. This world, which I had loved for so long, which had suddenly become dark and dreary. The pain would have been unbearable, had it not been for that kind sir who gave me the notion that you were alive. I hung onto the idea and cherished it until the day when you turned up at our house.

At first, I wasn't sure if it had been you, if my eyes hadn't just been playing tricks on me. Then you appeared again, a few days later. You were clutching a white rose in your hand: a delicate, slightly crumpled leftover from the funeral. You waved at me and disappeared; deep in my heart, I sincerely knew that you would reappear and help relieve me of some of the pain, take away some of the suffering.

Sure enough, you did. Throughout the months and weeks that followed, we re-encountered each other enough times to know your story, about you being a traveller through time and space. I could see that you had changed, but not just in the fact that your cancer had disappeared and you were taller and healthier-looking than the last time I had seen you, but also in the way you talked, the way you acted…

You're a changed man, Lucien. You have more courage and bravery than I have ever seen in a person your age. From our short meetings together, I discovered there was a girl you fancied; it was in that moment that I realised that Earth was your home no longer, that it was in that other world, Talia, where you belonged…

I remember your excitement when we embarked to Venice, your happiness as you bought that silver mask and placed it in your room when we returned home. I remember how you were excited upon arriving in Venice; it wasn't long before you were winding and weaving David and I through the streets as easily as if you lived there.

I know why now. I had my own suspicions at that point on; it was a mild worry niggling at the back of my mind. But even as you lay for three whole weeks in a coma, scarcely breathing, your brain reading devoid of a single dream spike, I suddenly realised why.

It was true that this was the third time such a thing had happened, though in the past it had not been for this long. The pieces of the puzzle clicked together in my head: the deep sleep, the excitement about Venice, how you knew your way so well around once you got there. I stared at you and realised, with a shock, that the marbled notebook David had given had gone missing every night, to reappear at your bedside the next morning. All this came back to me in an astonishing, astounding rush of images, fragments, memories, thoughts…

And so it seemed to me, as I caught glimpses of you in the year since then, happy and content in your new home of Bellezza, I saw the determined gleam in your eyes, the determination in your step, the life in your body. You looked better and happier than you ever had in your life on this planet. And I know why, Lucien. Earth is your home no longer. If anything, it is more a destination spot than anything, a place to rejoice with David and I before setting off, back to Talia, back to Bellezza, back to the world you really belong to.

I know this now, and I remember fondly our last meeting. You were excited; there was a new Stravagante named Sky Meadows, who you had known before you departed from your life on Earth. I know, Lucien, I know, but I still can't stop hoping for you to reappear again soon, in this world, in this life, for a few seconds. I can't wait for the sight of you again, a glow in your eyes, perseverance radiating from your whole body, and bravery in ever move. I can't wait to see you again. I simply can't wait, Luciano Crinamorte – as you are know called, to see you standing on our doorstep, white rose in hand.


End file.
